


Stolen: A Coraline Prequel

by Kat08



Category: Coraline (2009)
Genre: Child Murder, Dark, Family Issues, Guilt, I’ve Been Wanting To Write This Since Before TJI, Prequel, Protective Siblings, Sisters, Supernatural Elements, The Only “Sequel” To Coraline I’d Ever Watch Tbh, Tragedy, Twins, dark secrets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 13:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21037292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat08/pseuds/Kat08
Summary: In which Grandma Lovat finally has that discussion with Coraline and Wybie.The thing is, she knows a whole lot more than she’s been letting on.This is the story of two twin sisters.(Fic on hold!)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The story of Coraline, in Neil Gaiman’s words, is over, as far as he’s concerned. 
> 
> I would agree— but at the same time, there’s still more to the story than we’ve been shown, in the movie-verse, at least.
> 
> ⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟

The Joneses’ garden party had nearly run its course. 

White, swirling clouds had blown into the sky above, the sun dipping below the ridge of the nearest hill, and a couple of Coraline’s neighbors, an odd pair called Spink and Forcible, were starting to look like they’d rather be asleep in their own apartment. 

Mr. Bobinsky, muttering incoherently to himself (or was it the mice?), had gone through his fourth slice of pizza and was currently gathering his tools. 

Meanwhile, Coraline, Wybie, and Mrs. Jane Lovat, Wybie’s elderly grandmother, had been chatting amiably for nearly an hour. 

Coraline’s parents knew to keep to themselves; they’d rather not intrude on what looked to be an enthralling conversation just to introduce themselves. 

What they didn’t know, however, was that there was a whole lot going unsaid. 

⍟⍟⍟

Coraline was relaxed. 

She’d been relaxed ever since last night, when she’d finally rid herself of the key to the Other World, and had seen the last of the Beldam, a fearsome creature who had nearly trapped Coraline in her dimension with the sinister intent to steal her very soul. 

It had taken a great deal of bravery and determination, but Coraline had bested her, with just a bit of help along the way. 

She was proud of herself. 

And happy— to be free of all that, to finally get to let her guard down and enjoy her new home and the company of her new friend and neighbors. 

Wybie Lovat, the boy who lived scarcely more than a stone’s throw away from where the Pink Palace stood, had finally brought his grandma to meet Coraline and her parents, the newest tenants in the house, which the old woman also owned. 

In fact, she had used to live there herself with her own family. 

Besides politeness, actually, the reason that Coraline was so eager to meet the woman was because she had agreed to tell her about her dangerous adventure— namely because Mrs. Lovat’s long-lost twin sister had been one of the Beldam’s victims many years ago. 

Closure would be nice for her, Coraline thought, and then she and Wybie could share their experience with at least one adult without fear of disbelief or dismissal as well. 

It might not be an easy conversation to have— Coraline knew this. That was why she’d elected to tell her the full story over tea the following day at the Lovat’s house, which the old woman had happily agreed to before she even knew what the story was about. Maybe she was just glad for a visitor. 

As the party began wrapping up, the guests came to the Joneses and then Coraline, thanking her and bidding her a good evening. 

Eventually, only Coraline, her parents, Wybie, and Mrs. Lovat were left. 

Coraline and Wybie had not told Mrs. Lovat about the Other World. They’d simply found a nice spot to eat pizza and drink lemonade and had chatted merrily about Michigan, and school uniforms, and about how Wybie was going to leave for his parents’ soon as summer came to a close. 

When Wybie left with his grandmother, there was a mutual nod of understanding between Coraline and he: Tomorrow, they would tell Mrs. Lovat everything. 

Coraline could barely contain her nervousness the rest of the evening as she helped her parents clean up and headed inside. 

How would she even begin? Would her story _upset_ the old woman? She really hoped not. 

Coraline felt as if she owed it to that sweet ghost girl to tell her sister what had happened, and that her soul was finally free and at peace. 

There was no way Mrs. Lovat could be upset at _that_ news, at least— no matter how gruesome a fate her sister had suffered at the end of her life. 

In the early morning, long before Coraline had even planned to get up and head over to the old woman’s house, the cat had shown up, meowing incessantly at her to awaken. 

“Ugh, fine, I’m getting up. Are you coming or not?”, the girl muttered, sliding awkwardly out of bed and onto the cold floor. 

After she’d put on a jacket and some jeans, Coraline headed down the hall to her parents’ room to let them know where she was off to.

Her mother gave her a sleepy thumbs up at her daughter’s whispered request and slumped back against the pillows. 

Good enough. 

Outside was overcast, chilly, and a cold wind was whipping up dead leaves around Coraline’s feet as she trudged through the mud of the path before her. 

The cat, who had been silently following behind her, leapt up onto the side of a grassy hill and darted into a bush for seemingly no reason at all. 

Coraline shrugged and kept on walking. He’d turn up eventually. 

Loud revving in the distance told Coraline that her friend was already waiting for her. 

Sure enough, Wybie’s slightly obnoxious motorcycle rounded the bend, skidding to a halt in front of her. 

“Heya, Jonesie!” 

“I thought I was meeting you at your house?”

“You are. I just figured you wouldn’t want to get your shoes all muddy.” 

Coraline opened her mouth to tell Wybie that they already were, but decided against it. Why turn down a free motorcycle ride?

“Y’know what? Sure. Scoot up.” 

Despite the blaring engine and spastic twists and turns Wybie was taking as they sped off to his house, the ride over there was enjoyable— fun, even. Coraline found herself grinning to herself as wind whipped her hair back, ruffling both of their clothes as they reached the bottom of the last hill. 

She’d never seen Wybie’s house (or rather, his grandma’s) before. It wasn’t as big as the Palace, but the style looked similar. It was a pale yellow with white accents, which was definitely a less weird color than pink, and it looked about as old as hers. 

Mrs. Lovat was on the large front porch, sitting in a rocking chair. 

Wybie slowed to a stop and let his friend get off before leaning it against the wood of the porch. “Hi, Gram.” 

“Welcome home, Wybourne. And good morning to you, Ms. Coraline Jones”, greeted Mrs. Lovat with a warm smile. Her frail hands were wrapped around a mug, presumably filled with tea. There was a teapot and two other cups set out on the table before her. 

She beckoned for them to come and sit in the chairs opposite her. Coraline chose the one to the woman’s right and her friend followed, taking the other. 

“Now, if I remember right, you were going to— No, Wybourne, that’s my cup. Take this one— yes. Anyway, “ she continued, “You had a story to tell? I’m all ears.” 

Coraline nodded, and began by describing her initial move into the Pink Palace. It would be easier to start from a point where things were mostly normal. 

She took breaks to sip her tea (which was excellent, by the way, she informed the woman), and gradually progressed into the story of it all. 

Mrs. Lovat was completely silent throughout, with the occasional exception of scolding Wybie for his posture or telling him to quit fidgeting with his hands. 

Her face remained neutral, if a little somber, but never shocked, never doubtful, which Coraline was immensely grateful for.

At the end of it, Coraline told her how she and Wybie had broken the Beldam’s hand and cast its scattered pieces, along with the key, into the well and sealed it shut. 

“That’s when Wybie showed me that picture”, finished Coraline. “I recognized your sister immediately. It was the ghost girl who’d helped to guide me out of there.” 

Sunlight had finally begun to peek through the clouds, drenching the porch in warmth as the sounds of birds and insects grew in volume with the coming of the day. Mrs. Lovat was sitting back in her chair, basking in the light, and for a moment, Coraline wasn’t sure if she’d fallen asleep or not. 

She hoped not, after a tale like that. 

Wybie looked worried. “Grandma... you believe us, right? We wouldn’t bring up Great Aunt Martha if we didn’t know for sure that it was her.” 

But the woman shook her head slowly, eyes closing briefly in thought before she held up a hand. 

“Oh, don’t you dears worry about me. You wanna know something?” 

“What?”, said Wybie and Coraline in unison. 

Mrs. Lovat smiled, leaned forward in her chair, and beckoned them both closer. They leaned in as well. 

“That story you just told me wasn’t even the _half_ of it.” 

Coraline and Wybie exchanged a glance, which the woman chuckled at. 

“This _witch_ you talk of? She’s no news to me.” 

At their awed silence, she continued. 

“I’ll start by telling you one thing: Martha Rose Lovat, my poor, dear sister— her disappearance was a secret I kept from every single soul for decades.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟
> 
> I’ll be updating this shortly, but for now, have a sneak peek at what’s to come.
> 
> For any of you who’ve read my other Coraline fic, The Jones Imposter, I’m planning on a sequel to that as well.
> 
> It’s good to be back!


	2. Ribbons And Braids

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ignore the repeat end message from last chapter. I tried to fix it with no luck— I suppose the website has it out for me today, unfortunately. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! 
> 
> ⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟

Muffling laughter, I try my hardest not to move in the shadow I’m crouching in, hands wet and clothes muddied from digging around in the bog. 

Just a stone’s throw away, Martha is gazing into the water, making ripples on the surface with a finger and clutching onto a worn teddy-bear. 

_Now!_

Winding up like a baseball player, I step back, then forwards, hurling the object cupped in my fist straight at the back of her head. 

A horrified wail escapes my twin sister as the bullfrog hits her neat braids with an awful splat. She whirls around, but by then I’m already on my feet and breaking away, giggling madly. That’s two times I’ve gotten her this morning! 

“I swear, Jane, Momma’s going to throw a fit when she sees my hair!”, calls Martha. 

I pay her no mind; Momma won’t find out, she never does. I always make sure of that. 

My sister and I are as thick as thieves, we’ve been that way since we were born together. I’m older by a few seconds, so naturally, I take every opportunity to rub that in Martha’s face, but as much as I fool around, I truly don’t know what I’d do without her— she’s my other half.

Sometimes, when I’m having trouble fixing my hair, or tying my shoes, or with some other small matter, Martha helps me without a single question asked. I think she knows I’m quite helpless when it comes to tedious things; I’m not exactly the most persistent when it comes to working at something. 

Not that I do a poor job— it’s just that I tend to frustrate easily. 

Her weakness, by contrast, is loneliness in my personal opinion. I don’t bring it up, but I know she’s very much attached to her stuffed bear. 

Before that, it was the family dog, Jack, but he died, the poor thing. Papa had to put him down a few years back due to an infection and Martha was utterly destroyed over it. Of course I missed the old mutt as well, but I’d never seen my twin so utterly miserable. 

Martha’s the most bouncy, giggly girl I’ve ever met (besides myself, of course). It was disheartening to watch her descend into grief. 

I took matters into my own hands, saved up pocket-money for weeks and weeks, and bought a raggedy little teddy bear for her when Papa took me to the market one day. 

Martha didn’t say much when I gave it to her, but she took it in her arms and squeezed it so tight I was sure the little thing would burst. That was all the thanks I needed— that, and her smile, which returned shortly, thankfully, after I gave her that bear. 

One would think, therefore, considering her love of it, that I wouldn’t be so audacious as to hurl a bullfrog at her head while she’s leaning over the water, risking frightening her into dropping it— but no.

When boredom demands it, chaos I shall create. 

Hence how I find myself running at full-speed from my sister, both of us covered in mud and with our ribbons all soggy and torn, back towards the towering, pink estate that is our home. 

Papa and a few of his companions, all wood-workers and lumberjacks like himself, made their way here a little over a year ago and cleared out a lot so that they could begin work on what is now the ‘Pink Palace’.

It’s certainly the biggest place I’ve ever lived in — that I can remember.

There are vague memories of a much smaller one, stout and cramped, and crawling with termites— nasty little creatures. Both Martha and I were eternally glad for the change, and Momma glad for the solitude. 

It was lucky for all of us that Papa’s line of work allowed him to build us such a wonderful place. 

“Jane, I nearly dropped Robert!” 

Collapsing breathlessly on the front stairs, I turn to see Martha not far behind, the teddy bear in one hand as she slows her sprint to a jog and trots up to where I’m sitting, exhausted. 

Martha socks me in the arm and I wince, laughing. I deserved that. 

“Want to come around back and wash off?”, I ask. 

Another one of the many perks of the Pink Palace is the built-in water system, which includes an outdoor spigot around the back of the house meant to wash things like tools and wheelbarrows. 

It also works for washing muddy girls, however, so Martha follows me to the walled-in area and braves the chilly water with me for a few minutes. 

By the time we’re out, we’ve nearly frozen to death, but we quiet our chattering teeth and head inside as quietly as possible. We’re allowed to be outside quite late, but not in this state— not even after washing the mud off. 

After all, all of Momma’s hard work that went into doing up our hair is practically ruined, with our stray hair sticking every which way and the silk ribbons in our hair reduced to mere stringy scraps. 

This won’t do at all. 

Martha and I sneak past the kitchen and dining room and up the stairs. Now, all we’ve got to do is make it to our bedroom, and then we can undo and brush our our hair, and no one will ever suspect—

“Jane, Martha, why is the floor wet?”, comes Momma’s voice from downstairs, and both me and my sister take one look at each other and break into a run, nearly tripping in our haste to the bedroom. 

“Girls?”, Momma calls after us, but we’re already skidding into the lavatory, heading right for the bathtub. 

“Hurry, turn it on!”, Martha hisses, so I do. 

She busies herself with shedding her dress and helping me untie my own as we strip down to our underclothes. 

When the door swings open to reveal our mother, a confused frown on her face, we’re sitting mildly in the tub, hair down and combs in hand, as if we’d simply decided it was the time for a bath— no reason at all. 

“It’s a bit early for your bath, don’t you think?”, Momma sighs, but she’s smiling and shaking her head. “Supper’s ready, so don’t be long, or it’ll be cold soon.” 

She goes away then, and Martha’s look of both annoyance and pride makes me chortle in self-satisfaction. Another messy, playful romp in the bog gone unnoticed by our parents means another perfect day in my book.

We finish our bath and head down for dinner. 

Papa comes late, but he’s warm, and cheery, and glad to see us, of course. 

He tells us about his day as we finish our food and help Momma with the cleaning, slipping us both a paper bag when she isn’t looking— undoubtably containing some sweet he’s picked up at the market today. Those gifts never fail to lift my spirits. 

As I’m finally getting settled into bed later that night, stomach full of food and head full of pleasant thoughts, I’m aware of Martha in her bed a few feet away, tossing and turning like an animal caught in a snare. 

I lean over the side of my bed. “What’s the matter?” 

Faintly, in the darkness, I see my sister shake her head without an answer. How unlike her— she’s normally never like this. I try again. 

“Martha? Are you alright?” 

There’s a sniffling, barely audible, but I hear it. 

Has she been crying? 

That worries me; Martha hardly ever cries, even when she’s gone and skinned her knee or gotten a bee-sting. She’s as tough as nails— _I’m_ the one who starts up at the slightest papercut. Has something happened...?

“Martha?” 

Another sniffle, and Martha shuffles around to face me. “It’s nothing.” 

I scoff. “Obviously not! Why won’t you tell me?” 

“You’d think I was stupid...” 

“Swear I won’t. Tell me— please?” 

A shuddering sigh escapes her. “Okay. It’s just that... I don’t think Momma cares about us.” 

“_What?_” 

“Nevermind. I _knew_ you’d do that.” 

Dammit, I hadn’t meant to upset her. I get up from my own bed and sit on the end of hers. 

“I’m sorry. I’m listening.” 

With another heavy sigh, she nods. “Thanks.” She scoots closer so as to be heard. 

“She... she isn’t warm around us anymore. I’m not sure she ever was— she seems so wrapped up in her own thoughts all the time.” 

Despite my reassuring nod to her, I couldn’t disagree more. What on earth is she thinking? Momma loves us just as well as Papa, and he’s never home. 

In fact, I’m surprised that’s not what’s upsetting her. If anything, that should be the cause of her worry— it is for me, at least. 

The difference between us, however, is that I know both Momma and Papa care for us with all of their beings. If Papa weren’t away, he wouldn’t be able to work, and then we wouldn’t have funds to pay for anything at all. If Momma were to cater to us every second of every day, then she wouldn’t have time to cook, or tidy up, or do the washing, not even if we helped her all the while. There’s just so much to do, especially since it’s a new house and all. 

Perhaps Martha’s just anxious from being away from her peers. Our old house was small and dingy, yes, but we had other girls in the neighborhood to play with— and my sister has always been the more social one. Tearing her away from all of that has obviously been draining her. But I don’t dare bring this up now. 

Clearly, she wants something else to think about besides what she can’t change, so I pacify her by giving her a gentle hug and going back to my own bed. Sleep will do us both good. 

“Jane?”, she whispers soon after I’ve settled in. “You don’t think I’m crazy for thinking that, right?” 

Not crazy, no. Homesick and lonely, yes, but she doesn’t want to think about that. 

“I don’t”, I reply. “Goodnight, sis”, I whisper, though there’s so much more I want to say. 

I’m just not sure how I would even begin. 

Our mother wakes us in the morning, shaking us gently and pulling back the covers. I have such trouble getting up when it’s so drafty... 

Since school won’t be in session for another few weeks or so, our day, like many prior, consists of breakfast, chores, and walks through the surrounding hills and forest. 

“Don’t lean over the edge”, Martha warns me when we get to the well at the top of a hill, as she does every time. 

I shrug. It’s not as if I’ll actually fall in— we make sure to keep the lid partway on so there isn’t room for someone to slip through, yet just enough room for the rope and bucket to pass up and down as we need it to. 

I enjoy this, believe it or not, pulling up the little pail from the blackness of the well. 

It’s exciting! One time, there was a yellow salamander in it, all slimy and smooth, writhing about in the water. 

I remember Martha shrieking so loud that Papa heard us from the house— he’d had a rare day to himself and had only just arrived back to hear one of his daughters screaming bloody murder. 

I don’t exactly blame him for sprinting up the hill and falling on his butt in the cold mud. Good thing he has a good sense of humor. 

I’ve always believed that there might be fairies living here, for Momma says that they live in places like this: quiet and wild, where almost no people live. 

I should also mention that there’s a fairy-ring around the well itself, which is a clear sign, in my humble opinion, of fae activity, even if Martha thinks that it’s silly to believe in them. 

What does she know? She still lugs a teddy bear around, and we’re both nearly fourteen. 

The sun, for once, is out from behind the clouds and has begun to beat down on the ground around us. I’m grateful for the shade of the tree we’re crouched under. 

I pull up the bucket, careful not to spill, and get to my feet. What I don’t see behind me is the knot in the rope, caught up on a large piece of wood. 

As soon as I get up, letting go of the part of the rope I’ve been holding and stepping back, I bump into my sister, who had been quietly trying to loosen it. In a panicked frenzy, her hands fly to the rope’s end before it can slip past us and into the well, catching it just in time. 

Robert the teddy-bear, who had been in her grasp, however, was not so lucky as to be caught. 

With my whole body twisted to prevent Martha from falling, I’m unable to make a move to catch her bear as it flies from her hands... and right into the well. 

“No!”, she screeches, still clutching the rope, but poor Robert is long gone. 

I wince in sympathy when we both hear the delayed plop of it hitting the water far below. 

My sister’s face is wrought with misery. “I’ll never get him back from there”, she murmurs, absently tying up the loose end of the rope around the trunk of the tree. 

I lay a hand on her arm. “I’ll ask Papa to buy you another one when he gets the chance.” 

“It won’t be the same...” 

“It’ll be better than nothing, won’t it?”, I try. Martha just shrugs half-heartedly. 

I force a smile. “Maybe Robert will make... er, new friends down there?” 

“What, Jane, like the fairies?”, she snaps. 

Martha’s in a sour mood the rest of the evening, even going as far as snapping quite a few times at me during dinner, and once at Momma, though she looks a little guilty after that one. 

The woman frowns. “There’s no need to be rude, honey. Eat your greens, please.” 

Martha looks positively murderous now, all remorse gone, but stabs a piece of spinach with her fork and shovels it into her mouth, juice dribbling out one side. 

Momma makes a disgusted face. “Martha, stop that! Just finish your supper!” 

Still clearly fuming, my sister does as she’s told, though she refuses to look our mother in the eye the whole rest of the night. 

It makes my gut twist to see them so tense. Martha’s usually the most respectful, pleasant girl in the world, but now she’s at odds with the whole house, it seems. 

And it certainly isn’t helping that Papa couldn’t make it tonight, either. 

While she doesn’t have any more outbursts that weekend, Martha’s uncommonly unpleasant to be around, and that means I spend most of my time either bored or uncomfortable. 

Days pass. Our father comes less and less, arriving later even when he’s able to come for the evening meal, which makes me more and more uneasy. 

The tension doesn’t lessen, either. 

In fact, Martha is cold to Momma and I for the next couple of weeks. 

And I can’t do a thing about it. 

“I’m tired”, my sister tells me for the fifth time that week when I ask her to go out. 

It’s a beautiful day out, and despite the fact that Papa hasn’t shown up for days and Momma scarcely has a minute to spend with us between her chores and writing to relatives (some distant family matter I don’t know much about), I’m in a good mood. Perhaps today is the day Martha will get over her sour one. 

Pushing away feelings of discouragement, I scoff. “Oh, come on. You’ll feel better once you’re out of this gloomy house. Or out of our _bedroom_, for a start...” 

“Right.” She mumbles. “And when we get back, Momma will be waiting to talk and sing to us like she used to, and Papa will be here, and Robert will be back—“ 

“_Martha!_”, I exclaim. I can’t believe she still hasn’t let this go! 

She throws up her hands. “Well, am I wrong? Half an hour in the sun won’t change anything, Jane! Papa said he’d pick up a new bear for me and he hasn’t been back in days!” 

For a moment, I can’t reply. I almost want to slap her across the face. She sounds like such a brat! Is she actually _this_ upset over her teddy-bear? 

But then I consider what she’d told me a little while ago about feeling apart from our mother, and recall how even if I hadn’t minded the woman’s briskness, it may have affected Martha much differently. They’d always been closer, anyway. 

Or at least, they were a long time ago. What changed? 

Hugging her knees to her chest, Martha’s gaze looks so empty that it... scares me.

I don’t want her to feel this badly. 

“Hey”, I start, voice soft, “maybe we can talk to her. The both of us.”

Martha glances at me. 

“...I’ll be right there with you, and you can be honest with her.” 

Her eyes squint as she considers it, and then she nods. “I’d like that.” 

We have to go outside —which is a double bonus, I think hopefully— to find Momma, who’s out washing clothes under a tree beside the house. 

It’s chilly out, but pleasant with the warmth of the sun, and the breeze carries the scents of pine needles and rich earth. To my surprise, my sister looks just a little brighter as we come down the steps and round the corner, the tiniest of smiles gracing her lips as the wind ruffles her skirt. 

Momma is pinning some bedsheets, crisp and white and dripping with water, to the clothesline she’d strung between the house and a tree branch. She doesn’t see us at first, whistling a lullaby we both know from our younger days, mauve pink dress billowing as she moves. 

Her hair is back, as is her usual fashion, an intricately woven braid tying most of her silvery-dark hair behind her, with two partial ones in the front that I’ve always thought make her look so much like a most regal empress. 

Momma’s brown eyes shine like honey in the light as we reach her, Martha not meeting them as she stands beside me, our fingers intertwined. 

“Good afternoon, girls”, says Momma, pinning another corner of cloth onto the line perfectly without turning fully around. “Stretching your legs?” 

“Actually”, I begin, glancing at my sister, “Martha would like to talk to you.” I nod for her to go on. 

Martha looks like she’d really rather not, but I squeeze her hand, and after a moment she looks up at the woman before us. 

“I— I miss you, Momma.” 

Momma stops what she’s doing. “I’m right here, honey.” 

“No”, Martha continues, shaking her head. “No. It’s more than that. I _feel_ like you’re far away.” 

At that, the woman’s face falls from confusion to a somber understanding, and I can’t help but make a face myself. What am I missing here? 

Martha doesn’t look up. She kicks at a lump in the grass until it comes loose, scattering dirt across her shoes and making me cringe further. If this silence goes on any longer, I’ll lose my mind.

I wonder if I should stick around for this— it feels like it isn’t exactly my business, after all. 

But, thankfully, Momma comes forward, and I let go of Martha so that Momma can place her pretty, age-worn hands atop her shoulders. 

“I know, Martha. And it’s not your fault. I know.” 

Martha’s foot is still grinding into the dirt under it, squashing the grass. “But why is it like this, Momma? Did I do something...?” 

“Heavens, no— Come here, Jane, you’ve got to hear this too”, says Momma, so I come. 

“Your Papa... he’s gone missing. He was away with his crew and they lost sight of him in the woods when they were gathering logs for a house.” 

Her words don’t sink in for a second, and then it’s like a punch in the stomach. 

Missing. 

It’s too vague, too random. It could mean a lot of things— like that he’s been chased away by a mountain lion, or lost his wits in the endless trees, or went the wrong direction and kept on walking. 

Or... it could mean that Papa got hurt, or worse. I don’t really know what to think. 

Maybe he just ran away. 

I realize that none of us have said anything. Martha is hugging our mother, who squeezes her back, and that makes me a little bit happier. At least they’re mending some part of their feud. 

Momma’s looking right into my soul, though, and it’s probably because of the tears streaming down my face. I don’t even know what to say. 

This feels like the worst day of my whole life.

**Author's Note:**

> ⍟⍟⍟⍟⍟
> 
> I’ll be updating this shortly, but for now, have a sneak peek at what’s to come. 
> 
> For any of you who’ve read my other Coraline fic, The Jones Imposter, I’m planning on a sequel to that as well. 
> 
> It’s good to be back!


End file.
